Death And I Are Head To Head

Death And I Are Head To Head In A Total Collision, Pure And Mutual Distaste.

The Cold Winds Of Insecurity... Hadn't Shredded The Dreamy Chrysalis Of His Childhood. He Was Still Immersed In The Dim, Wet Wonder Of The Folded Wings That Might Open If Someone Loved Him; He Still Hoped, Probably, In A Butterfly's Unthinking Way, For Spring And Warmth. How The Wings Ache, Folded So, Waiting; That Is, They Ache Until They Atrophy.

In New York One Lives In The Moment Rather More Than Socrates Advised, So That At A Party Or Alone In Your Room It Will Always Be Difficult To Guess At The Long Term Worth Of Anything.

True Stories, Autobiographical Stories, Like Some Novels, Begin Long Ago, Before The Acts In The Account, Before The Birth Of Some Of The People In The Tale.

I'm Sixty-two, And It's Ecological Sense To Die While You're Still Productive, Die And Clear A Space For Others, Old And Young.